Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Sixty-Two

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The sound of warm, ventilated air breaks the monotony of the eerie silence surrounding me, the gentle yet steady flow a huge relief from the frigid hell I had to endure outside not too long ago. I happily welcome the tiny blast of heat spreading over and seeping into my skin, thawing my stiff, nearly icicled limbs back into feeling what normal human arms and legs are supposed to feel like, but unfortunately, that's the only thing I feel relieved about right now.

The quiet humming of the heater in the background is disrupted only by the sounds of my unsteady breathing and the constant ticking of the large round clock hanging high on the wall opposite me. Other than generic white walls, a barred window, a single cabinet and sink, and the standard wheeled bed I'm sitting on, there's really not much else to look at in the bland, cookie-cutter room.

And then, of course, there's the unique, sterile, antiseptic smell wafting in the air; the kind that you can only find in a hospital or some sort of health facility—precisely where I am, and precisely where I don't want to be.

My chest rises and falls unevenly as very familiar, cold metal touches my skin, moving over various parts of my exposed torso again and again. My fingers clutch the hem of my shirt, trembling slightly as they hold it high above my belly, revealing a good portion of my body.

I reluctantly look at the man right in front of me; the one who'd instructed me to hold my shirt up. The same man who sat across from me only a week ago as I signed away my soul in his office. The same man I haven't been able to stop thinking about even before that surreal event happened, and the same man who insisted that I get a complete and thorough physical exam before attempting any invasive medical procedures—hence my reason for being back in the surgical center; a place I have come to abhor for more than one reason.

Frost sits opposite me on a tall stool, equally silent, with his breaths as quiet as the still air around us—a stark contrast to my own strained breathing. His large hands are sure and steady as he maneuvers his stethoscope over my body, his fingertips grazing my skin around the chestpiece, leaving invisible trails of heat and tingles everywhere they touch me. Somehow, it feel like his hands are doing all the talking, saying everything his lips aren't.

I've been here for almost thirty minutes, and he still hasn't said anything about what happened the last time we saw each other. He hasn't talked about our agreement, about the contract, or Mindy. Hell, he hasn't so much as remarked on the weather, as shitty as it is. Nothing. Okay, not exactly nothing. He did give me a very casual, almost indifferent "good morning", reread my chart, and told me to lift my shirt so he could work his magic stethoscope on me again, but that's about it. Then again, why am I even complaining? Do I really want him to bring up the contract? The suspense is practically killing me, but I don't want to be the one to bring it up, either. Heck, I'm not even sure I'd know how to if I did.

I don't know how he can act so calm and aloof considering the more than awkward circumstances. Then again, maybe it's only awkward for me. Maybe he's this casual about it because he's done this before. I wouldn't be surprised, and it would totally make sense given how straightforward his approach was when he made his proposition.

I feel my chest tighten at the thought of being just one of many women he's paid for sex. The thought of being just another sheep in his vast, ever-changing herd, or just another little, insignificant drop in his large fuck-pool of women evokes a wave of disgust from deep within me, making me feel sick to my stomach. But it also evokes another feeling that I can't quite put into words...